


A Dog's Day

by dark_pookha



Category: Original Work
Genre: Community: HPFT, Other, Shapeshifters - Freeform, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_pookha/pseuds/dark_pookha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caleb Conroy awakens with a pounding headache and a strange yearning for meat.  Soon he's given an offer he can't refuse: Join the Wild Hunt or die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Day

Caleb’s head pounded as he sat up carefully. He rose too quickly and started to slump back onto his sweat-soaked pillow. Morning light seeped through the partially-drawn curtains, stabbing through his eyes like hot needles.  
  
The scent of coffee and bacon wafted in from the kitchen. The rucked-up covers showed he’d had company the night before, but he couldn’t remember her. He sighed and closed his eyes. Chanel No. 5 tickled his nostrils, detectable even over the stronger smell of the coffee and bacon; he’d finally scored with Heather, then. He opened his eyes and the perfume lingered.  
  
Sliding his feet carefully over the edge of the bed, he rose. His foot hit a sticky pool of blood, and he almost fell. The pounding in his head intensified as the metallic tang of blood filled his head. His training took over and he reached for the gun in his bedstand. Instead, his cell was there, blinking its message light at him.   
  
The pounding in his head faded slightly as he crept toward the kitchen nook. A lacy bra had been flipped over a lamp and the matching pair of panties hung over a chair back.  
  
Sliding quietly around the corner on the balls of his feet, he came face-to-face with a man. What struck him first was the man’s fist. What struck him second was the tattoo above the man’s knuckles that read ‘Bite.’ After he tried to rise, the man reached down and grabbed him in a windpipe-crushing choke-hold.  
  
“Now, then,” the man said in an English accent. “Are you going to be reasonable about this, or do I have to choke you unconscious and tie you up?”  
  
Caleb nodded.  
  
The man chuckled. “You’re nodding to say that I have to choke you unconscious and tie you up?” The man’s free hand lifted Caleb’s missing pistol to his head.  
  
Caleb tried to shake his head and say, “No,” but all that came out was a wheezing.  
  
“I’m going to let you go, but remember I have your gun.” The man shoved Caleb down onto the ground as he released his hold. Caleb collapsed in a heap, his headache returned: a tympani that pounded in rhythm to the lights flashing before his eyes. He struggled to draw breath.  
  
Caleb grabbed a kitchen chair for support and pulled himself up. He swayed dangerously and would have fallen if the man hadn’t grabbed his elbow. The pistol in the man’s other hand never wavered as he helped Caleb stand.  
  
“I think you should sit down.”  
  
“What?” Caleb finally managed to gasp.  
  
“I said, ‘I think you should sit down,’” the man said.  
  
“Who—who are you?”  
  
“I said, ‘Sit.’”  
  
“Wait—I…” Caleb stammered.  
  
“Sit, boy!” The man’s voice held a tone that brooked no disobedience.  
  
Caleb pulled out the chair and sat. The man sat across from him and pushed a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs toward him.  
  
“Eat; you’ll need your strength.” The man clicked the safety on the gun and put it on the table, but kept his hand near it.  
  
Caleb started to ask a question, but then the smell of the bacon and eggs came to him, more strongly than before. He grabbed his fork and started shovelling food into his mouth. He ate like he hadn’t eaten for days. The man watched him the entire time, his face impassive.  
  
As Caleb finished, the pounding in his head lessened and he looked at the man, really seeing him for the first time. He was a large man, maybe six-foot, five inches and probably close to three hundred pounds of muscle. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light from the kitchen. He had a tattoo on each hand, just above the knuckles. Caleb recognized the one labelled ‘Bite,’ and wasn’t surprised to see the other one read ‘Bark.’  
  
“Now, I imagine you’re confused and you’re wondering just who the hell I am and what I’m doing here.”  
  
Caleb nodded around the last bite of eggs.  
  
“My name’s Iain Dando, and as you Yanks say, I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” He smiled, revealing teeth that had been filed to points.  
  
“If this is about that sub-prime mortgage package that I sold to Frankie Gambolino, that’s been fixed with his capo.” Caleb put his fork down and watched Iain.  
  
Iain laughed. “The Gambolino family is minor compared to what I’m about to tell you.”  
  
“Get on with it then.”  
  
Iain smiled. “I’m inviting you to join the Hunt.”  
  
Caleb shook his head. When Iain had said, ‘Hunt,’ his headache worsened and a vision of the night before came to him.   
  
  
He was just about to climb into bed with Heather, from the firm of Skyler, Jambol, and Jakes across the hall when he chanced to look out the window. He stopped and watched as a mixed pack of dogs chased a man down the street, three stories below.   
  
A small terrier burst forward from the pack and nipped the man’s ankles, causing him to tumble into a lamppost. The other dogs in the pack fell on him and started worrying him. One would rush up and as the man turned, another would spring from the other side and bite him. The dogs seemed to be toying with the man. Caleb felt paralyzed as he watched the scene.  
  
“I thought you were coming to bed,” Heather’s voice purred from behind him. A lacquered nail slid down his neck and lips pressed into his shoulder.  
  
Her voice broke him out of his paralysis and he moved quickly to the bedstand to retrieve his cell.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Heather asked.  
  
“I need to call 911. There’s a man being attacked by dogs outside.” He flipped his phone open and dialled.  
  
Heather wrapped a blanket around her and peered out the window. “All I see is a wino leaning on a lamppost and talking to himself.”  
  
Caleb moved back to the window and looked down. The man moved more feebly now, bleeding from a score of bites and the dogs sat around him in a circle. The man talked to a large Doberman who sat at the front of the pack.   
  
“You don’t see that whole pack of dogs sitting around him?” Caleb asked.  
  
Heather shook her head, causing her dyed-blonde hair (and now Caleb was sure it was dyed) to fan out. “All I see is a drunk, homeless guy who’s on a bender.” She turned to Caleb. “Did baby have too much to drink? Mommy can fix that.” She let the blanket drop and pressed against Caleb.  
  
As soon as she averted her gaze, the Doberman at the front of the group leapt and ripped out the throat of the man against the lamppost. His body twitched as blood gushed and he fell into the gutter.  
  
The Doberman’s head turned and looked up. Caleb tried to pull back, but he felt sure the dog had seen him and smiled in the way that dogs seemed to have. His head began to pound and he fell to his knees.  
  
Heather knelt next to him. “Honey, what’s wrong?”  
  
He stood with her help and looked back out the window. The body was gone and so were the dogs. “I don’t know, maybe it was too much to drink.”   
  
He sat on the bed and Heather sat next to him. “I can come back tomorrow if you’re not up to this tonight.”  
  
“I—I’m not sure.” Caleb started to say more, but the door to his third-story balcony opened and a large, bald man with a square jaw and tattooed knuckles came in through the swirling curtain.  
  
“What do you want?” Caleb stood and began to move toward the man.  
  
“Who are you talking to?” Heather asked.  
  
“Him,” Caleb said, pointing. “Look, can’t you see him.”  
  
The man stood still and watched. Caleb put his hand on Heather’s shoulder. “Look.”  
  
Heather’s eyes widened and she started screaming. She rose from the bed, but the man closed the distance between them in one long step and pushed her onto the floor. He held her down by the shoulder as he looked at Caleb and grinned, revealing pointed teeth. “Sleep, now; we’ll talk tomorrow,” he said.  
  
Caleb grabbed the cover from the floor where Heather had dropped it, wrapped it around his body and lay on the bed.  
  
“Caleb, what’s going on?” Heather sobbed, her mascara dripping. Caleb’s eyes drooped as he lowered his head onto his pillow.  
  
The man turned his attention to Heather. “Run.”  
  
“What?” she said.  
  
“I told you to run.” He yanked her to her feet with one hand.  
  
Heather spun and started to run out of the apartment. She fumbled with the dead-bolt and the man was on her.   
  
“Not fast enough,” he whispered. He lowered his fangs to her neck.  
  
Caleb’s eyes closed and his snores almost covered the screaming.  
  
  
“Wakey, wakey.” Iain’s voice came from a tunnel. The cold water splashing on his face helped to awaken Caleb.  
  
Caleb started to raise his head, but darkness caught him again and his head fell back to the table with a dull thump.  
  
“No, you don’t,” Iain said, yanking Caleb’s head up by his hair. Caleb’s eyes opened again, but he stared blankly at Iain.  
  
Iain let Caleb’s head fall back to the table. There was a dull crunch, and a small trickle of blood began to drip from Caleb’s ruined nose.  
  
“Looks like you need some more protein, my boy.” Iain opened the refrigerator and grabbed out a steak that had been in the meat drawer. He ripped open the butcher’s paper and lifted the meat to his nose. He closed his eyes as he sniffed it, and when he re-opened them, they shone with a feral, yellow glint.  
  
He lifted Caleb’s head again, and slid the steak under it. He let Caleb’s head fall onto the steak and waited. It was only a few seconds before Caleb’s eyes fluttered and began to regain focus.  
  
“Heather?” He gasped as he raised his head. His nostrils flared and he grabbed the meat. Without thinking he ripped a hunk of it out and started chewing.  
  
“I’m afraid she didn’t make it.” Iain grinned, revealing his fangs again.  
  
“You killed her?” Caleb asked around another bite of the steak.  
  
Iain nodded. “She’d seen me.” He dug in the fridge again and came up with a can of beer. He ripped it open and took a long swig. “Yanks and their damn cold beer. She shouldn’t have been able to see me; it was only because you saw me first and pointed me out to her.”   
  
Iain laughed. “You killed her, mate.”  
  
“I don’t understand.” Caleb finally really looked at the raw steak he was eating and threw it on the table in disgust.  
  
“You saw me; that means that you have the blood. You made her able to see me, too, which means you’ve got a good dose of the blood.” Iain drained his beer and opened a second one.  
  
Caleb took the opportunity while Iain’s back was turned. He stood and grabbed the gun off the table. With a single action he flipped the safety off, aimed and pulled the trigger. Iain must have already worked the slide because the chambered bullet ripped into him just above the shoulder. Iain grunted and fell to his knees. The spilled beer puddled at his feet.  
  
Caleb aimed again and pulled the trigger, but Iain had already moved and the bullet smashed into a coffee maker and shattered it. Iain grabbed Caleb’s hand in a wrist-lock.  
  
“Don’t shoot me again; it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t actually do anything.” Iain twisted his grip on Caleb’s hand and the gun fell from his numb fingers. He kept exerting pressure until Caleb felt his wrist starting to separate. Caleb watched as the ragged exit wound in Iain’s chest closed up, healing like a vampire in a movie.  
  
“What are you?” Caleb asked.  
  
“I’m the leader of the Hunt,” Iain answered, releasing Caleb.  
  
Caleb cradled his wrist and sat again. “What hunt?”  
  
“The Hunt,” Iain answered. “We hunt those who deserve to be hunted.”  
  
“Did Heather deserve to be hunted?”  
  
“Like I said earlier, she’d seen me, and she wasn’t of the blood, so she had to die.” He smiled again. “If you hadn’t made her see me, then she would still be here.”  
  
“What blood? What are you talking about?” Caleb’s headache started pounding again.  
  
“The blood of the fair folk. You’d call them faeries, but they don’t like to be called that.”  
  
Caleb put his head down in his hands. “You mean elves?”  
  
Iain barked out a laugh. “Aye, there are elves, but they’re not like you think.” He leaned forward. “They make me look like a schoolboy.”  
  
“I don’t understand.” Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.  
  
“Look, mate, I’ll make it simple.” Iain smiled. “You either join the Hunt or me and my pack kill you right here.”  
  
“My pack and I,” Caleb corrected immediately, without thinking.  
  
Iain wrapped his hand around Caleb’s throat. “Don’t piss me off.” He squeezed and Caleb’s face began to turn red, then purple as Iain kept up the pressure.  
  
“Now, then, boyo; do you live or die?”  
  
Caleb tried to nod and Iain released his grip. Caleb fell onto his hands and knees and gasped for breath.  
  
“What would I do in the Hunt?” He finally managed to speak.  
  
Iain knelt before him. “You’d hunt the guilty and the oathbreaker. You’d kill those who deserve death and harry the prey to the ends of the Earth. You’d become a hound of the Hunt.”  
  
“I’d become a werewolf?” Caleb asked as he pulled himself into a kitchen chair again.  
  
Iain laughed heartily. “No, werewolves are poor, cursed creatures, no more than animals.” He sat across from Caleb. “No, you’d be a hound. You could keep living much as you do now, but when the Hunt calls, then you hunt. You would become immortal and much stronger than a normal human.”   
  
He touched the barely visible welt where he’d been shot earlier. “And of course, you’d heal quicker than a human, too.”  
  
“And if I don’t sign up, then you’ll kill me?”  
  
“That’s the long and short of it, yeah.”  
  
“Then I really have no choice.” Caleb met Iain’s eyes. “Make me a hound.”  
  
Iain moved behind Caleb and put his hands on Caleb’s shoulders. Caleb’s body jerked as a current of magic passed through him. His face began to melt and his body sprouted fine white fur. He screamed as he fountained blood and his boxers shredded. He would have fallen from the chair, but Iain grabbed him under his elongating arms and held him tightly.  
  
“It gets easier with practice,” Iain whispered. He put Caleb’s half-shifted form on the ground and watched as Caleb finished the transformation. One moment, Caleb’s body was recognizable as human, but the next, a hound lay panting on its side at Iain’s feet.  
  
Caleb had turned into a white-furred dog with long limbs, like an Irish Setter, but heavier and covered with small, blotchy, red spots. His forelegs were feathered with wispy, red fur and his nose was blood-red.  
  
“A true faerie hound,” Iain whispered. “I haven’t seen one of you in over three hundred years.”  
  
Caleb lifted his muzzle and howled. Iain howled with him and one by one dogs began appearing in the kitchen surrounding them. They were of all types: big dogs and small; terriers and hounds; mutts and purebreds. As they appeared, they howled in chorus with Caleb and Iain.  
  
“You’re one of us, now,” Iain said and shifted into his Doberman form. The Hunt coursed after him as he ran right through the wall as if it weren’t there. Caleb rose last and followed. Muscles bunched as he ran through the wall and flew across the reflection of the Moon in the Chrysler building.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a first chapter of a story or NANO one year, but it never went anywhere. This chapter is okay on its own, though.


End file.
